


The Red Feathers

by winterwhite



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bard's College, Forsworn, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:37:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwhite/pseuds/winterwhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not many native Reachmen own land. Tearlag's family was one... and now she's found her lot cast with the Forsworn. She's no hero or war leader, so what can she do about the conflict? Begins years before the arrival of the Dragonborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

> "Tearlag" is probably pronounced "Char LAK" and might be the origin of "Charlotte." "Eithne" is more like "Anna." "Catan" is "KAH tan." "Grainne" is "GRAW nuh." At least, according to the internet.

The snow blasted out of the evening air like a wall, staggering her as she stepped out from the protection of jutting rocks. Tearlag squeaked, but the footprints ahead of her were fast crumbling and wearing away. She couldn't fall too far behind. If she didn't lose the group and die alone of cold, she'd be found by wolves too wary to attack the little band. Haste kept her warm, and she sniffled as she tried not to cry. She would freeze her scarf to her face. But she knew her home was still burning in the distance.

It felt as if they had been walking for hours. She'd nearly lost them when they crossed the river, picking their way across the ice. They hadn't so much as lit a torch until they were deep in the mountains. On a wintry Reach evening like this, it was lucky that no one had fallen down a rocky slope or broken a bone on the thick ice caked around toothlike crags. The wind picked up again, and Tearlag lost her footing and fell heavily against a rock. She grunted with pain, pushing herself to her feet again. There was no going back now. 

The group was climbing up a path sheltered by an overhang. Out of the wind, Tearlag hesitated, but the bone-biting cold drove her on. The snow was much lighter, and walking much easier, although it was getting so dark she could barely see. She breathed a little better as she continued up the trail. They were slower, talking back and forth. Occasionally she heard a laugh. The wind was dying down, and the snow had stopped falling, by the time they reached the top. A croaking, staggered sound, like laughter or mad vultures, startled her. She leaned out of the protection of rock to see campfires and the arching of carved stone, like old ribs. They were near one of the old ruins, then- 

"What's this?" A voice scared her so much she nearly fell back down the path. A hand caught her wrist. He held no torch, but his face was clear enough by the growing moonlight. He was as savagely painted as the others, and she shrank back. "Bran, you're letting your mouse fall behind!"

"We didn't find any mice," said one of the men, coming back with a torch in his hand. He held it a little higher, frowning at her. "I suppose the mouse found us." 

"Some hunter," the man said, still holding her wrist. He tugged, gently. "Well, mouse, you'd better come tell us what you're doing here." 

"Spies come in all sizes," said a woman's voice, and another figure split off from the group. Her face in the torchlight was streaked with red and lined from years of sunlight and harsh weather. She grabbed the man's wrist and shoved the torch a little closer to Tearlag. "Perhaps not this small. They'd have to send spies to find their spy. How close did you come to freezing?" 

"I know her," said one more voice, so deep and grating Tearlag caught her breath. She'd thought this a man big as a building, but he now she saw he was an orc. An actual orc, green-skinned and painted like the rest, bristling with rough furs and bear claws. "That's the miller's girl! What are you doing away from the mill?" 

Between the question and the terrifying questioner, Tearlag burst into tears. 

"We're as good raiders as hunters, tonight," said Bran. "We brought back a pair of poor stories and a girl-child that cries when looked at." 

"They took the mill," sobbed Tearlag. "They took the mill and killed Ma!" 

"What was that?" said Bran. "Oh, here, Eithne... all right, but don't make that face, you'll scare the ravens. Here, Turach, get some food into her, thaw her out, and see what words hide in that wailing." 

Turach was the orc, but since the rest of the group was already back to talking to each other loudly and the sentry was already turning away to get back to his post, Tearlag had no choice but to fall in behind him. 

"You probably don't know how I know you. I helped your grandfather build that mill. He knew as soon as he tried to hire labor, there'd be none to be found until Nords had lain their own foundations up and down the river. So he showed up one day and wouldn't leave until our chief had spoken to him. Camped right outside the gate. He was stubborn. Kept asking, every day, to meet the chief." The orc opened a door that looked like hides woven into a metal grid. Tearlag could see a small fire inside, and piles of furs. She scooted gratefully out of the wind. "He convinced him to let him hire us, and we came down and worked. Me, I went into town, got arrested as an example to the others. Sent straight to the mines to crack rock for the Nords. That's how I met the Forsworn." He took off his heavy cape and his gloves as he spoke, settling down before the fire. Tearlag listened, not daring to look at him, chipping ice away from her bootlaces. Her fingers stung and burned in the warmth. The orc was poking in the coals. "There should be some potatoes in here somewhere. Here... no, this is a rock. Here." He dug a potato out, scooping it up quickly and dropping it on a cloth. He passed it over, lifting the lid from a kettle. "Rabbit again. Am I the only one that will carry a goat?" Tearlag's cape was heavy with snow and ice. She pushed it off to hang it up. He seemed less terrifying the more he talked. "I went back once just to look at the place. They finished it up well." He dished up a bow and put it down near her, the potato beside it. "Saw your family coming back with you behind, so I went on my way. Your grandfather still alive?" 

She folded the cloth over the ashy potato, crushed it, and picked out hot chunks with her soup spoon. "No," she said. "Last winter was cold. He fell sick." 

"Terrible," he said. "Not such a bad death for a Breton, at least. Why did you follow us?" 

"They took the mill," she said. "Ma said they wouldn't dare while he was still alive, not after what he did in the war." She ate soup rather than cry again. He waited, tapping ice out of his gloves onto the ashes. "When you attacked..." She swallowed. "You attacked the soldiers." 

"We did."

"I heard you outside." She swallowed. The warcries and shouting down the road had been unmistakeable, and she'd crawled out of bed to get dressed, fearing a run to the keep. "Some of them were already at our door. They didn't want - they didn't care about -" 

"They wanted the mill," he said, "and they didn't ask any questions." 

"They killed Ma," she whispered. His expression didn't change, carved in the firelight, but he gave a little nod as if he'd expected that. "I screamed and screamed for Da. I didn't hear him. They came towards me, so I ran. And then I didn't think I could go to the keep, where there were more soldiers." She put her head down on her knees. 

"So that's why they split up," he said. "If they'd stuck together they might have seen us coming. They brought their own deaths on themselves." 

It was no comfort. Tearlag hugged her knees. She jumped when the door swung open, a blast of cold air riding with it. 

"If you ate all the stew, orc-" Eithne was saying, but she stopped to squint at Tearlag. "Is she melting? She looks smaller." 

"Most of her was cape," said the orc. "I think we're born bigger than that. How do you find your babes again once you've put them down?" 

"You heard her crying," Eithne said, shaking snow into the night before she pushed the door shut. "They're all that loud." She settled in front of the fire with a sigh. "Well?" 

"Soldiers killed her family for their land," said Turach. "Won't be the last who joins us with that story." 

"I thought so. I hoped she had family with us somewhere. Maybe you do, girl, but you've the look of a true daughter of the Reach. I admit, I hoped we'd get another fighter. You can help cook, I suppose." She frowned at Tearlag's hand. "Hold your hand out. What caused that?" 

"I spilled thistle," said Tearlag, rubbing at the stain. "Brewing something to help fight the cold." 

"We found Grainne a helper," said Eithne. "Good. I'm done getting her ingredients ready." 

"More time to hunt goats," Turach said in the tones of someone picking up an old argument. Eithne took the bait immediately, and their voices were quickly going back and forth, a well-worn exchange with no heat to it. Tearlag settled back among the furs, thinking only of getting warm. But after a meal and a long march, she was soon lost in dreamless sleep.


	2. A Bit of Shell

Two hawk feathers. A handful of wheat. A pair of torchbugs. A pair of mudcrab legs and a small, single claw. A lone songbird's egg. A small wreath of briars, although her hands bled from tiny pricks and scratches. Mountain flowers and a shining, soft nirnroot, still fresh in the damp spring air. Tearlag hoped it was enough. The few years she'd lived with Grainne taught her to respect the shaman's temper. She picked her way up the steps, leaning her head back to look at the mountain warblers hopping here and there and the ravens staring serenely over all of it. One staircase down, she was still at the very bottom of all the flights of stairs that dotted through the grassy slopes and crumbled walls. 

"I hear you, Catan," she said.

"And there's no good that does you, this range." He leaned forward to poke her in the ribs with the point of his sheathed sword. "You should come to practice with us. What are you going to do if a mercenary finds you picking flowers, throw a bottle of poison at him?" 

"Grainne said she'll teach me to throw fire and ice soon," Tearlag said. She already knew he'd just snort. When she'd lived among Nords, the magic in her blood had brought her some cautious respect. Here, it barely turned a head. "I'll freeze him and shoot him from a distance." 

"I suppose I should be glad you carry a bow, even if you do no hunting with it. So what did you find, playing in the fields?" 

"Nothing that I'll prepare for you," she said, sidestepping him and going on up the stairs. "Get me a wolf's claws and I'll think about it again." 

"See there? See? You're not even sure you're ready to hunt wolves. Come practice with us, if just with a dagger. There's not a shaman in the redoubt that doesn't know which way to pick up a sword." 

"I heard you," she said, waving as she started up another weathered stretch of stairs. The truth was, she was hopeless with an axe, and not promising with a sword. She put her time to things she could actually do. A day was easily filled with alchemy, cooking, gardening, and learning the bones of magical art. After a raid or a recruiting there was always something to be done in the forge, knotting leather strips and punching holes in hides. "You'll need strong fingers for working magic," Grainne had said. And no matter how poor she was with a blade, every daughter of the Reach needed to know how to pull a bow to feed herself or defend her home. 

Grainne wasn't in her tent. There were a trio of ravens clustered on its frame, watching Tearlag with bright, beady eyes. Tearlag glanced over her ingredients, tallying the things ravens would steal if they had a chance, and put the edible things in Grainne's chest. She hung the wreath of briars over the table and lay the nirnroot down carefully. Somehow, she always thought the magic in them was so delicate she bruised it with even her ignorant fingertips. 

"You're late," said Grainne. Tearlag jumped, turning to see her offering a bit of rabbit to one of the ravens. It turned its head both ways to regard her before deliberately turning its back on her. Grainne sighed, ducking into the tent. "Next year, next year. Did you forget what I told you?" 

"No," Tearlag said. "I was climbing a cliff for bird's nests, and I couldn't turn back halfway there." 

Grainne laughed and let it go, as Tearlag had hoped. She thought Grainne found her persistence her one good quality. "Adrienne is coming with a small band. I'll be teaching them. I'll have no time for you. Eithne will be going hunting tomorrow, and she'll take you as far as the river near the Snake's Shrine." 

"What will we do there?"

"What will Tearlag do," Grainne said. "And what she'll do is find me mushrooms. The spring rains must have sprouted plenty in the valley, and brought them near the cave mouth. There's a low scrape behind the shrine. Crawl in there and bring me back as many as you can carry."

"I've seen all kinds closer than that," Tearlag said. "From white caps to scaly-"

"These are different. You'll know them when you see them. I used to crawl into cracks in the cliffs and pick bushels when I was a girl. Of course, you'll have years to pick them if you won't grow a little. You eat enough, where does it all go?" She began poking through Tearlag's offerings. The mudcrab claw was pulled out and given a stern look. "What happened to the other one?" 

"Broken," said Tearlag. "It fell on rocks when I shot it." 

"Pray to the Fox for more stealth, and get a little closer," said Grainne. "Our stores of cures are too low after the winter to waste time scrabbling all the good from these." One of the ravens gave a croaking call and flew away. Grainne didn't turn, but her shoulders slumped a little. Tearlag heard her mutter a little prayer for it to carry on its wings to the Eagle's spirit. "You can work on that, what there is of it. Did you kill any skeevers?" 

"I didn't see any." 

"If you don't get better at hunting when you've got magic in your hands, I'll wash my hands of teaching and go live in the ice with the horkers." Grainne picked the nirnroot up, stroking a hawk's feather with her other hand. "Go on, go on. I've work to do." 

"Yes, Shaman Grainne, thank you for teaching me," said Tearlag, and left under the watchful gazes of two ravens. She breathed a little easier away from their stares. But then a wild laugh reached her from high atop the redoubt, the same croaking, wild laugh that had frightened her so badly when she first reached a Forsworn camp: the laughter of a hagraven. Grainne was seeking to become one, courting the spirits and reading the signs, but so far the gift remained out of her reach. Privately Tearlag didn't mind at all. The one time she'd been near a hagraven it had been uncanny and uncomfortable. As much as she'd tried to hide it, she thought the woman's sharp eyes saw her fears, and found them funny. 

The sun had crossed to the far side of the peaks, and the air was beginning to feel like the edges of frost. Tearlag flexed her hands, wondering again if she'd learn fire magic, or frost. Perhaps it would be neither; perhaps Grainne would teach her the calming spells to quiet goats before the sacrifice. Perhaps- 

"Catan, if you jab me in the ribs again I'll put poison on your sword hilt," she said, trying to mimic Grainne's coldest tones. 

Catan laughed. "Come on! We're going to have an archery match. There's no way you'll win but we're going to have a roast goat afterward." 

She swung obediently around. Catan, confident she was following, had already turned his back. "You've added to your quiver. Those are some bright feathers. What are they?" 

"Dyed eagle feathers," he said. "This is to be my war-quiver now. You didn't think I was just going to hide up here all my life, did you?" 

"No," she said, following a little more slowly. The same doubts as always filled the back of her mind. 

"The children of the Reach are the children of Red Eagle." He reached up to shift the strap of his quiver. "He made a great sacrifice for us. We walk in his path." 

She bit her lip. Some days it felt like everyone in the camp knew the lore of the Old Gods and the secret legends of the Reach. She'd picked up many in the few winters of her stay, but more were passed on in hidden rituals and quiet code. But Catan couldn't mean to be a briar heart. They'd never let a boy so young lie on the hagraven's altar. 

"Catan?" For a minute she thought he was just going to keep walking, but he turned when he realized she'd stopped. "What do you do to earn the red feathers?" 

For a moment the look in his eyes scared her, but he laughed and turned. "You and your questions will keep us until the others have the match without us! Come on, I'll race you."


	3. The Nest's Edge

A fox caught one of Eithne's arrows on the morning they set out, and while she was in a good mood for its meat and fur, Tearlag considered it a bad sign. But she kept her thoughts to herself, passing a quick prayer up to the Fox God and keeping up with the long-legged woman as best she could. Eithne, long a scout, seemed to consider it possible they'd be split up on the way back. Her fast-paced lectures on what roads were safe and what were last seen crawling with Nords and soldiers blurred quickly in Tearlag's head.

"What about the talk of the Imperial Legion?" she asked. "Shouldn't we be worried about them?" 

"Great good news," said Eithne. "The Empire might have considered our claim on the Reach, don't forget. The Legion has no grudge against us and no understanding of us. They'll stumble around in the valleys and never find our strongholds. How far into the caves are you going to go?" 

"I don't think very far," said Tearlag. "I don't know what I'm getting, and that means I'll be slow and careful, but Grainne said I'd know them when I saw them. She doesn't say things like that often. Alchemy leads to bad things if you're not specific. Eithne, have you ever seen jazbay growing?" 

"No, Mouse, I stay in the Reach. Which is where your mind had better be if we get split up." 

"Yes, Eithne," said Tearlag dutifully, and fell in quietly behind her. Eithne's mood did not improve with the missing of two pheasants, and Tearlag was glad to find the shrine, and the narrow crevice behind it. Thaws from the high cliff above were dripping and pattering onto the pebbles below, dirt long since washed down into the deep crack. Tearlag cast a glance at Eithne, who was laying her arrows on the shrine and asking for a blessing, and put her coat and pack down behind a small bloom of wildflowers. She lay on her belly, trying to ignore the cold drops that pattered down, and slid into the crevice. 

No one grew up among the silver mines clustered near the City of Stone without a tolerance for weight over the head, so Tearlag was able to set aside the looming presence of the mountain over her body. Mushrooms were sprouting here and there, as promised, but none looked unusual. Tearlag crawled a little further into the mountain. If she didn't press herself down, the light behind her was mostly blocked and she could barely see what she was doing. The front of her shirt quickly became soaked with icemelt, and she began to shiver. 

However, just ahead, she thought she saw light. She squinted. She hadn't felt a sharp turn in the rock, hadn't gone far enough to get out the other side. Was there a connecting cave? Or magic below the shrine? She crawled on more determinedly, although the passage became so narrow that even she couldn't turn around. With all the daylight blocked, the light shone green. Tearlag pressed her lips together and firmed her numb grip on the rocks, carefully feeling to avoid sharp edges. Just a little further and she'd be able to tell what it was...

She crawled into a wider space where she could see clearly. The rock seams were glowing, spangled with some kind of fungus that clustered and dripped around her. She broke off a tiny chip to look at later. There was a glowing, bearded mushroom ahead, big as two hands together. Tearlag got to her hands and knees and crawled determinedly for it. She turned her prize over in her hands. It left a very fine glow on her fingertips. She broke a tiny piece off and touched it to her lips, closing her eyes to feel the magic in her body and how it reacted to the strange plant. Definitely it had properties she could bring out in a potion.... it felt as if this mushroom would be a friend if someone were throwing storm magic at her, but that was all she could say. She tucked it carefully into her gather bag and looked about for more. She could feel warm air in a draft from below. She found the crevice opened up into a proper cave, with ledges descending into footholds down into the blue-green glow of a wider tunnel. It twisted out of sight, lined with more glowing mushrooms. Tearlag carefully began to lower herself down. 

Her gather bag was full when she saw something new: a cone, dappled with strange lights, growing up out of the floor near the tunnel bend. She frowned. It didn't look like the rocks, but reminded her of a fungus. She crouched carefully by it and sliced it open with a quick flick of her knife. Strange fluid oozed out, and globes bigger than her fist rolled out of the leathery side. She picked one up, frowning. Something hissed in the darkness. Tearlag gasped. And something further down the tunnel moved. 

Her retreat was quick and soundless, as if the god of foxes had smiled on her. But she froze, not entirely confident, when she reached the ledges that led back up towards her crevice. How quickly could she climb back up without drawing attention to her, and how quickly could she climb out without being caught? Whatever had moved, it was quite, quite large-

Tearlag's mind blanked as the thing that had moved came into the light. 

For a moment she thought it was some old man, but its nose and its withered eyes, the elfin gauntness of its face and the sharp wedge of its chin, were too clear. She thought it was a draugr, but those had blue eyes and it had none. It was breathing, snuffling. It moved slowly and shakily, as if it were sick, or old; that was no comfort to her in the first shock of its appearance. It was dressed, as if it had the mind for clothing of a man, but the things it wore were shining or hard-edged, as if it really some shelled thing pretending to walk on two legs. It put its hand into the damaged side of the pile and lifted it to its face, made some sort of sound like it were groaning, and swung its head from side to side. She did not know it if were smelling, or listening, or both. 

Her fingers found something smooth and narrow, the familiar feel of an arrow, and she wrapped her fingers around it. Somehow, it grounded her to find an arrow down here with this monster. She was still a Daughter of the Reach, and it was just a monster elf in a cave. But it was approaching her. Tearlag stayed still. She wore enough furs and paint that she knew her scent would be confusing, perhaps buy her a moment... she found a little vial she carried in her belt, and eased it free. The cork came out quickly between two fingers, and she coated the arrow-head, strange as it was, between her fingers. Her knife was still shining with the goo from the pod, but she coated it with the rest as best she could. 

The elf went by, so close that its gray hand almost brushed her. Tearlag was shivering so hard that she had to bite her tongue to keep her teeth from rattling. When it swung back she almost panicked, but it turned away again and took another step, reaching out to feel the empty space ahead. Its fingers brushed the rocky wall. Tearlag could see it, in her mind's eye, turning, taking a step, and bumping into her. The thought was too much. She swung her hands at the thing's back. 

Dagger and arrow found its back, and the elven monster collapsed under her, spasming with the dose of the poison. Tearlag staggered back and fell against the rocks. It flailed but did not get up, shivering to stillness. Tearlag stayed where she was until she was sure it was dead. An elf? She'd killed an elf? She'd never met one, she knew the Nords hated them and feared them, and no wonder if they were anything like this... but how was she going to prove her tale? No one would believe her, no one would understand how very... elven it was, something that thought. She couldn't take its clothes, they weren't exactly thick on its body. She couldn't drag it out; it was much bigger than she. Her gaze fell on its sharp-pointed ear, and she swallowed. 

In the end it was easier than harvesting hawk's eyes, although Tearlag was never going to admit closing her eyes while using a knife she knew she'd recently poisoned. She wrapped it quickly and thrust it into her bag, then crawled back up out of the cave without lingering. Eithne was not there. Tearlag's hands were shaking still, and she leaned against the shrine until her heart quit hammering so hard. Grainne had made it clear that she expected armfuls of the mushrooms, but Tearlag contented herself with hunting familiar kinds until noon, when Eithne appeared. 

"Mouse, little Mouse!" She dropped a wedge of Eidar cheese and a slice of potato bread into Tearlag's lap. "Good news! We've got an agent in Markarth willing to pass you off as her daughter for a few moons." 

"How is that good news?" The food was welcome, and Tearlag ate a bite of cheese with a few snowberries she'd found. They were still too tart, and her eyes watered. 

"You're small enough to pass for a few years younger. No one will think twice of talking in front of a child... and you can pick up a bit of enchanting skill if you're clever about it. We don't need you to do anything you can mess up, don't worry... there will be several students in the house. All we need is someone to keep track of comings and goings. Once we have everyone accounted for, we'll plan what to do next. Mouse, what's wrong? You're looking as if a Wispmother showed up to tell you stories." 

Tearlag held up the arrow she'd found, a strange, forked arrowhead of something not stone or steel. Eithne took it quietly, frowning. Tearlag offered her the wrapped bundle. Eithne flipped it open. 

"Well, well," she said slowly. "I think when you're done with this little task, we should keep you in mind for something bigger. Are you all right? Was it a dunmer? Did it hurt you? How did you hide the rest of it, do you need help hiding it better?" 

Tearlag began telling her story. But although she'd have given everything she had a week ago to have a Forsworn scout taking her so seriously, she wasn't sure now if she wanted it after all. She felt as if she had left something in the cave, something she would rather have saved.


	4. Chapter 4

Tearlag dumped another armful of grasses on the sullen fire, coughing as thick smoke spread out into the little tent. The last of winter's cold meant huddling under furs, which gave last summer's parasites that rode in on furs or feathers another chance to hatch and feed. Tearlag owned a half of broken comb brought back from a raid on a merchant's wagon, which at least gave her a defense against lice, but little mites rode in rabbit fur and the feathers of the ravens Grainne lured to the tents, and fleas were thick in the hides the hunters brought back to tan. Winter's cold made killing pests with smoke unpleasant or dangerous. Which meant the best part of spring was the new sprouts and leaves that could be burned to kill small scuttling things. 

The kettle by the fire was warming, and Tearlag shivered as she shed her dress and began scrubbing her skin with a handful of wet grasses, letting the water trickle along the stone under the edge of the tent. She balanced her weight onto her toes as much as she could to spare her feet the cold. Red dots marked her arms and legs. She would have to make a poultice of blue mountain flowers, now that they were budding again. She was streaked with greenish stains but clean of dirt by the time she used the last of the cooling water to rinse herself, and scrubbed herself dry with her alchemy apron before hanging it to smoke and sliding back into her dress.

"Tearlag!" Grainne was calling. Tearlag poked the fire with a stick to stir more smoke into the tiny tent and stumbled out coughing and red-eyed.

"Mara save us," said a new voice, and Tearlag looked up, rubbing her eyes.

"I know. But she's quick enough," said Grainne. "Here, child. This is Priscilla." 

"I've heard of you," Tearlag said, and wished she hadn't from the unhappy tilt to Priscilla's mouth. The woman was an Imperial, tall and dark, with her hair beautifully wrapped in hanging braids. Tearlag had heard a lot, from the whirlwind romance with a Forsworn man to his withdrawal from the strongholds to live with her, to his death and that of their children when Ulfric had administered his purge, to her return to work with them as a loyal agent. 

"Grainne said you're ready with magic," Priscilla started, "and -- Stendarr preserve us, was the girl wearing war paint?" 

"The children stripe themselves with snowberry paste, to charm back the cold," said Grainne, a hint of amusement in her rasping voice. "It stains the skin, but it should come off with a proper bath." 

"I just had a bath," said Tearlag.

"It looks more like you rolled down a hill," said Priscilla. "Are you packed?" 

"I have my half a comb here," said Tearlag, pulling it from a pocket. "My bedroll is still hanging in the smoke." 

"Never mind," said Priscilla. "Leave those, I've enough coin to outfit a child... and I know a closemouthed khajiit trader who'll ask no questions. 'Tearlag' won't do, it sounds practically savage, and I've enough work trying to make her look like a townschild. Your name is Cara, you're my stepsister's child, and I've had to change my plans. The household I want you in has gotten far too suspicious. We won't start you in Markarth until you've had a while to learn your cover. You'll go to Solitude." 

"Stag's bones!" said Tearlag. "That's nothing but Nords!"

"Yes, which is why it's ideal. You'll be a little Breton lady by the time you get there, and I'll teach you what you need to know to coax open a simple lock. There are a few errands I'll need you to run, changing one thing for another and copying letters... it's too much to hope for that you can read and write, isn't it?" 

"A little," Tearlag said. "Mother had a few books, and Grainne has one." 

"I've had her copy from my herbalist's guide," said Grainne. "Her writing will pass for a student's." 

"I need my bow," said Tearlag. 

Priscilla, eyes wide, looked over the spiky bow on Grainne's back. "Is it like yours? Absolutely not. Bring nothing, child." 

"Can I give my bow and fishhooks to Catan?" 

"Yes," Grainne said, "if you go right now and come right back." Tearlag heard them talking as she scrambled off, but she was too intent on getting her things and finding Catan to pay any attention to them. 

He was at the archery range, as she expected, and gave her a smile as she ran up. "Well, Mouse?"

"I want you to have these," she said, dropping her little satchel into his hand. "It's my fishhooks, and the things I found on the slopes. And here," she slung her quiver off her shoulder, "and..." Her necklace was a simple one, a strap hung with the arrowhead she'd taken from the monster-elf in the cave. "It's time for me to go away on my..." 'Mission' sounded too important. "My work for Priscilla. Will you keep my bow for me?"

"Of course I will." He took it. "You'll do a fine job, don't worry. You'll come back and teach all the Reachwomen a new spell or two. Don't let them look down on you. Remember, the Reach belongs to us." 

"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn," Tearlag said.

**

"No, you cannot run out there in a towel," Priscilla muttered. "Just get your comb once you're dressed." 

"They're just legs," said Tearlag from behind the screen with the tub, a little more sure that nobody could overhear them with the noise and the singing outside. "Everyone has them." The towel itself seemed thick as a robe to her, a luxuriant waste of fabric. 

"And quiet little children do as they're told." Priscilla pressed a stray lock of hair back with her hand. "I've seen the armor the witch-women wear, and I know what you're used to, but those standards are barbaric in the eyes of Solitude folk. And if they put on more, they wouldn't need so much snowberry paste. Speaking of which, put on your shoes before you run outside." 

"Do I really get a whole cot to myself?" Tearlag came out from behind the screen in her new dress, and not at all comfortable with the way the sleeves hugged her forearms and puffed up near her shoulders. The shoes were strange and stiff on her feet. It felt strange and wasteful to wrap her hair in the towel, but it was dripping over her shoulders.

"Yes, child. And stop tugging at your sleeves. If the innkeeper sees those flea bites she'll charge us double, bath or no bath. Cara!" Priscilla snorted as Tearlag reached for the door. "That's you. Stop forgetting." 

"Sorry!" said Tearlag, and whisked out, muttering "Cara" over and over to herself as she sped to the stables. Her little pack was strung up with the saddlebags, and she took it back through the freezing evening to the warm little room. Priscilla briskly combed it and put it into one thick braid. Tearlag tilted her head to either side, getting used to the feel. 

"Now," said Priscilla, "that little chest I put under the bed, fetch it out. I learned on the lock, there's no reason you shouldn't." 

**

"No, child. This isn't Solitude, this is Rorikstead. See how tiny it is? Don't ask such silly questions. And throw away those flowers, there's nowhere to brew potions here." 

**

"There you are. The rain's dried up enough that we're getting the wagons ready -- blessed Mara! What is that you're eating?" 

"It's a mudcrab," Tearlag said. "Just hand-sized, baked in clay by a little fire." 

"I need to sit down." 

**

"No, child. This isn't Solitude, jewel of Skyrim. It is Morthal, dismal little skeever-tail of Skyrim. Don't be so impressed by a few buildings. Come along, we should buy you some supplies and a book if they have one." 

**

"No, child, this isn't Solitude, this is the Solitude docks. Solitude is up the hill there, see? Oh, close your mouth, you look like a gawking peasant. Now, you'll room at the bard's college and start your lessons there, but I'll arrange an enchanting tutor when it's time. Now listen. Viarmo will be the Altmer gentlemen-"

"He's a Thalmor bastard?"

"Cara!" 

**

"My name's Drucilla," said the little girl, and curtseyed.

"My name's Cara," said Tearlag, and curtseyed back. "I took the cot on that side, if it's all right." 

"Of course! Would you like an apple? My mother sent me with apples."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," said Cara. Her smile stayed frozen for a minute as she searched for something to say. Priscilla's drills hadn't gone past introductions. Drucilla's smile was equally uncertain on her face. To cover, Tearlag bit into the green apple. It was crisp, sweet, and tart, much better than the little dried ones that made their ways to the stronghold cooking-pots. "This is good! Should I have left it? Do they go red if you leave them?"

"No," Drucilla said, laughing a little. Cara thought about it and decided it wasn't a mean laugh. "They're from different trees. I think there are some in the Blue Palace garden. I hope we get to see them." She looked at Cara's side of the room. "Are those bees pinned on your headboard?" 

"Yes," Cara said. "I caught them outside, on the lavender bushes. Nobody cared if I picked some, either. I asked. They're for alchemy lessons." 

"Oh, divines! Will I need to catch bees? I'm terrified of bees. Is alchemy very... disgusting?" 

"It's like playing in mud," Cara said. "You know, with things like mudcrab shell and hawk feathers. Maybe you won't like giant's toes, but those cost a lot, we probably won't use those until later." 

"Mercy!"


	5. Chapter 5

"Now stay close to me, and we should all be just fine." 

Cara did not miss the note of uncertainty in Viarmo's voice. Inge, who usually handled alchemy lessons, had taken a bad fall down the stairs and was resting. His little group of student children had gone out the little back way from Solitude, coming out over the river. They'd been in the College for only two days, long enough to get dizzy with books and lectures and meeting people, and passionate about their first trip outside. She'd marked the little door to the stairs over the river in her memory. She was already homesick for the singing wind and high spires of their fastness. Her dress still felt stiff and awkward. 

"How do we tell the good flowers from the useless flowers?" Drucilla asked. 

"That's what this field trip is for. There used to be an herbal garden down the path. It's running wild and soon the last of it will be gone, but until then we can start you learning useless plants from useful ones. Soon you won't even notice something unless it's got strong properties. Slow down, Dawn, we need to stay together." 

"Yes, Master Viarmo." Dawn was skipping, but she slowed, swinging her basket side to side. Cara hung back a little, studying the growth close by the shore. She could see a few twists and husks of leaves that looked like bits of deathbell caught in the reeds, but there was no telling how far upstream the plant had been. Her eyes followed a long piece of fallen log half-lying in the current to see something bright and shining at the end. She squinted. Hawk feathers!

Cara's boots were on the shore in a flash, her skirts lifted over her knees and bunched in one hand, and her feet on the branch before she thought twice. She could hear Drucilla squeak in alarm, and Viarmo was on the shore behind her in a few long strides. "Steady, now, Cara!" 

"I'll be fine." The log felt steady underfoot. 

"What's she doing? We should be picking flowers!" Dawn was not taking well to the pause.

"I just want-" squatting to get her prize would be hard with her long skirt that must be kept dry, but the feathers were flirting with the breeze and the water beneath them, and could be swept away at any minute. 

"Be careful, Cara!" Drucilla sounded scared to death. "Don't fall in!"

"It's not deep or fast," Cara said, barely avoiding sounding scornful. So much fuss over a little water! She leaned down carefully, feet braced, and reached as far as she could. 

Something black and pointed rose from the water, viciously striking towards her fingers. Cara shrieked, pulling her hand back, and Viarmo splashed into the water, grabbed her around the waist, and swung her towards the broad end of the log. Cara landed lightly and scrambled to the shore while Viarmo, like a long-legged stork, strode back to solid ground and stood dripping. 

"What was that?" Cara cried. Viarmo was watching the dark shape dart angrily along the shore, moving in and out of the silt clouds his feet had left as if searching for something to bite. 

"That was a slaughterfish, common to deep water around Skyrim. You'll find them in the ocean, lakes, and big rivers such as this. They eat things that run into the water, or young girls, if they can get them. If this were a higher-level class you'd all be listing off what you can use from them." 

"Oh," said Cara faintly. She'd heard of slaughterfish, but the springs and little brooks all over the Reach could hardly sustain them. She eyed the big, slow river with new respect.

"Did you get your feathers?" 

Cara stretched out a hand, opening her fist. A bent and crumpled feather gleamed russet in the light. 

"All that for a hawk feather?" asked Tala. One of the Redguard twins, she'd hung back, walking slowly with her sister. "You could have ruined your dress! Or gotten your fingers bitten off! Or both!"

"Good!" Viarmo said. "Ah, not the risks, the question. This is an excellent time to give you a start in our lecture later today. It's going to be about the market." Dawn made a noise of pure frustration and threw her flower-basket down by a rock, sitting on it and staring at her feet. Tilma, the second twin, also sat down, giving her leg a chance to rest. Cara tossed a little rock to tease the slaughterfish and settled on a piece of log further up the shore to listen. 

"Now, if Cara had taken my boots and clothes this morning and sold them, she would have been able to buy bags full of hawk feathers. If Cara didn't already know a thing or two about alchemy, she would use them as pillows, because the feathers would be useless to her. Dawn wants flowers, not feathers. She wouldn't value them either. You all don't want to listen to this lecture because it seems very long, while flower-picking trips are rare and seem very short. If I were to make you pick plants all day, you would love to sit down and listen to me talk. That's how scarcity works. Scarcity drives value, and value gives us price." 

"But that's just common sense," said Tilma.

"Almost," said Viarmo. "But sensible Cara, who none of you would have told me at the start of our trip would be putting both her and me near a slaughterfish's teeth, risked us both. Why? Because she had no hawk feathers, so they were valuable to her. Cara, do you know all the potions that could be made with a hawk feather?"

"No," said Cara.

"Well, go out of the shadow of the rock, look across the docks, and come back and tell me what you see. We'll wait." 

Cara did, moving quickly to try to keep from ending up enemies with Dawn. Her heart fluttered with joy as she saw a hawk swooping low over the water. Then another. Was there a mated pair living there? She took a few more steps and saw the open sky over the docks. 

"Sorry, Master Viarmo," she said when she rejoined the little group. "It was late when I got here. They weren't in the sky." 

"Precisely," said Viarmo. "That feather was precious to Cara here because she knows she has to experiment with them. She'll likely waste her feather trying to find a new property. The next feather she finds will be more valuable to her, because she's closer to finding what it does. If Cara had known that those hawk feathers belonged to fish hawks, and fish hawks clog the skies over Solitude, she would have known she'd get a free chance soon. Now she knows. The bottom of the hawk-feather market has dropped out for Cara. She will not risk her fingers or pay an alchemist for them any more. They have value, but no scarcity." 

"I'm sorry, Master Viarmo," said Cara again, staring at the ground. 

"Now, scarcity isn't the only thing that matters. These have become my outdoor clothes. I don't own any like them. But they are my least valuable. Cara, you should be listening very carefully to my longer lecture. Today you'll write an essay that explains all the reasons for that change."

"Yes, Master Viarmo." 

"Good! Now, let's go find that garden before Dawn throws herself to the slaughterfish." Dawn leaped up. Cara kicked a rock. Tala helped Tilma stand. 

"Master Viarmo isn't so bad," said Drucilla as the little group set off again. "You could have both been bitten, and all you have to do is write an essay." 

"No, but he can hear us," muttered Cara. Drucilla went on talking about slaughterfish. Cara let her, watching the river and the path. Viarmo seemed unconcerned by his dampness, although he smelled like the river. 

By the end of the afternoon, everyone was happier. Tilma sat quietly outside the garden, while all the girls brought her a share of flowers and showed her the little things they were finding. Cara filled her basket quickly. Viarmo, still smelling a bit fishy but dry, talked about the different uses that men and mer had for each ingredient. Cara half resented it. Mer had no business in the Reach, and when she left, she would be keeping to the old ways. 

"Now, everything in here was safe for you to pick with your fingers, even the nightshade," Viarmo said when they were clustered around him again, ready to go. "But there are some things you'll need tools or gloves for. We're going to be talking about those when you're a little more advanced. The Bard's College is interested in obtaining a few legendary pieces, just curiosities." Cara's attention perked. "The collection is quite tiny now, but when Inge is better, she can tell you all about it." 

Cara's attention wandered again on their way back to the college. Impatient, she stashed her supplies and went to go talk to Inge. Viarmo was already there. She could just see the edge of his elbow from the crack in the door. 

"-not sure the college is the best place," he was saying. "Our most valuable possession is our knowledge. That can't just be stolen from us." 

"The ring does have a bit of value," Inge said. "But Nettlebane? Who would want to steal that?" 

Cara turned. She wasn't going to hear anything more valuable than that.

Nettlebane, sacrificial tool to the hagravens, stolen in a Jarl's raid decades ago.

Graine would kill to have it back. Cara hoped it would be a simple matter of a lock.


End file.
